Surrender the Night (12 page)

He had risked everything to protect her—again. The thought slammed against every opinion she’d ever held of the British. That any man, save her uncle, would risk his life for her caused a storm of confusion to rage within her. It frightened her. It elated her.

It frightened her
because
it elated her.

She shook off the traitorous feelings. He must have something to gain from keeping her safe. But what?

“Mr. Reed, have you been shown to your quarters yet?” her uncle asked.

“No, sir, I have not.”

Rose cringed at his British accent.

“I shall show him,” Amelia offered excitedly.

Aunt Muira patted her hair and headed toward the stairs. “Do you have any luggage?”

“No, madam.”

She turned to Forbes. “Oh dearest, always taking in those in need. So like you.” They shared a loving gaze.

During which Rose tried to move her feet to flee to her chamber but found them still frozen to the floor from the shock of all that had transpired.

Uncle Forbes laid his folded hands across his portly belly. “Though normally, Mr. Reed, you’ll take your meals in the kitchen with Cora, do join us tonight. We would love to get to know you better.”

His eyes widened in shock before a smirk played on the edges of his lips. “I shall be delighted.” He leaned on his crutch and the muscles in his forearm bulged beneath the snug cotton shirt.

Rose wondered if Aunt Muira would recognize Samuel’s clothing on Mr. Reed’s much larger frame. Tearing her gaze from him, she
searched her heart for a morsel of anger against his heritage, against him, but found none.

“I’ll show you to the groomsman’s quarters.” Tugging on his arm, Amelia led him toward the front door.

“First, please tend to our landau and horses, Mr. Reed,” her uncle ordered.

Mr. Reed’s haughty brow rose, but at Rose’s insistent nod, he flattened his lips and hobbled outside.

After Aunt Muira excused herself to freshen up for dinner, Uncle Forbes approached Rose, a look of reprimand on his face.

“I’m sorry, uncle. I should not have hired him without your approval.” She bit her lip. “But I see he displeases you. I shall relieve him of his duties at once.” She hoped he would agree, so there would be no need to explain when Mr. Reed suddenly disappeared. She started toward the door, but her uncle grabbed her arm.

“No, my dear. Your aunt finds favor in him. And he seems well-suited to the task. I trust your judgment.” He cocked a brow and for a second, she thought she saw skepticism cross his brown eyes. “Does he come highly recommended?”

Rose smiled at the opportunity to impugn the British man and hence procure his immediate dismissal. “No, not at all. In truth I hardly know him.” She leaned toward her uncle and whispered. “He could be a criminal.”

“Nonsense, dear.” Aunt Muira chuckled as she floated downstairs. “I find him charming. There’s a nobility about him that adds elegance to our home.”

“I agree.” Uncle Forbes straightened his waistcoat. “Let us at least give him a fair chance.”

“But—” Rose began, but her uncle lifted a finger, silencing her.

“No arguments,” he said.

No arguments. Rose sighed. If only they knew they had just hired a British naval officer to be their man of work, there would be plenty of arguments.

If they knew they had just invited the enemy into their home, they would never forgive Rose.

CHAPTER 8

S
hifting his weight onto his good leg, Alex gripped the back of his chair and waited until Mrs. Drummond, Miss McGuire, and Amelia took their seats. Across the spotless white linen that covered the table, pewter plates, silverware, and glass goblets shone beneath the glimmering light of several candles set in brass holders. A modest display, to be sure, but far more than he expected from these backwoods farmers. Amelia burst into the room, then slowed her pace as she pinched her cheeks and approached the table, offering him a coy glance. She’d exchanged the lavender gown she’d worn earlier that day for one of cream-colored muslin with a pink velvet bow tied about her waist. Alex shifted uncomfortably beneath his drab, stained garb. Never in his life had he attended the evening meal so shabbily dressed. Even aboard the HMS
Undefeatable
, he’d always worn his cleanest uniform.

He glanced at Miss McGuire who slid into her seat across from him. She had not changed for dinner from the simple muslin gown she’d worn all day—a definite breach of proper etiquette. Yet the flowing lines and delicate pattern of the fabric flattered her feminine figure and brought out the glow in her face. He longed for a glimpse of her sea-blue eyes, but she kept them hidden from him and glanced instead at
her uncle sitting at the head of the table—the man seemingly oblivious to his lapse of decorum. Both in the fact that he had taken his seat before the ladies and that he had invited Alex, a mere servant, to sup with them. Unheard of!

As soon as the ladies lowered into their seats, Alex moved out his chair and sank onto the hard wood, stretching out his injured leg beneath the table. A plump colored woman whom he assumed was the family slave slapped a steaming bowl and two trays of food in the center. His stomach growled as the spicy smell of gamy meat and butter filled his nose.

“Shall we bless the food?” Mr. Drummond bowed his head, the ladies following suit. As the man prayed, Alex cast a curious glance across the group. It had been years since his own father had prayed before a meal. When had he stopped? He couldn’t recall. Yet as Mr. Drummond’s voice shook with emotion and his words rang with sincerity, Alex couldn’t help the lump that formed in his throat. These people actually believed God had provided this food and would bless it to strengthen their bodies. Yet the fare that sat before him, though it smelled delicious enough, paled in comparison to the nightly feasts Alex had partaken of at the Reed estate back home.

Where thanks had so rarely been given.

Their harmonious “amens” rang over the table, and Miss McGuire handed him a bowl of buttered potatoes. She continued to avoid his gaze as he took the dish from her and spooned a portion onto his plate. No doubt, she was not altogether pleased at his presence at her family’s table. But how could he have avoided it? He’d watched the soldiers leave the farm from his spot behind a bush along the tree line. But as he waited, it occurred to him that the foppish gentleman he’d seen enter the house had not left along with them. It was beyond objectionable that the man should be alone with Miss McGuire. Alex intended only to ensure her safety before returning to the icehouse, but when he approached the front door and heard Miss McGuire order the man to leave and saw that he did not oblige, Alex had no choice but to step in.

He handed the bowl to Amelia beside him. The young woman had no trouble keeping her gaze locked on Alex. Creamy skin surrounded by waves of raven hair and sharp brown eyes assessed him with brazen
impunity as she flitted her lashes and took the potatoes. Like so many of the ladies he’d known at home, Miss McGuire’s companion was a coquettish tease. With the proper attire—and pedigree—she would be the belle of the London season … if she weren’t such an unsophisticated American.

Ruffians
, he huffed to himself. Again, he found it beyond the pale that they would invite a servant to dine at the same table with the masters of the house, but Alex would not complain. The few minutes he’d spent with their cook in the kitchen convinced him he would no doubt suffer from indigestion should he be forced to dine while listening to her incessant grumbling. Besides, being the son of Lord Cranleigh, he had every right and more to sit at any table he chose.
If they only knew
.

Alex stabbed a chunk of some type of meat from a platter that barely held enough for all of them and placed it on his plate.

“Please forgive our meager fare,” Mrs. Drummond said as if reading his mind. “I’m afraid that the British blockade of the Chesapeake has restricted our diet and tightened our purse strings. And with no one to hunt game for us, we are forced to purchase what we can from the local trappers.”

Alex glanced into her green eyes and was startled at the intelligence he found there. Intelligence and a speck of hauteur that together with her stately bearing could match any of the accomplished, society matrons back home. A sparkle drew his gaze to elegant jewels dangling from her ears—an odd accessory to her plain gown. What a dichotomy. Yet despite the wrinkles lining the corners of her eyes and mouth and the touch of gray that ran through her auburn hair, Mrs. Drummond possessed a refined comeliness Alex had not expected to see among these crude Americans.

“However, we must thank Rose for the potatoes.” She gazed lovingly at her niece. “She grows them in her garden, you know.”

“And Cora for her delicious apple butter.” Mr. Drummond nodded as he snagged a biscuit from the tray. “Best in all of Baltimore.” He dipped his spoon into a serving bowl filled with the brown, gooey substance and slathered it over the bread.

“Indeed.” Alex smiled at Miss McGuire, but still she would not look his way. “Has the blockade caused you much discomfort?”

Something struck his foot, and he peeked beneath the table, thinking perhaps a dog wandered about seeking scraps of food.

“As you know, Mr. Reed.” Mrs. Drummond’s tone was edged with pride. “We are a hardy people and have become quite accustomed to living off the fruits of our labors.” She sighed. “It is the luxuries we miss. The exotic fruits, sugar, coffee, and rice from the West Indies. The satin, taffetas, and velvets from England and France. Why, I haven’t had a new gown in over a year. And the millinery was nearly empty the last time we visited.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Amelia shook her head, sending her dark curls dancing. “It has been insufferable.”

“Come now, my dear ones,” Mr. Drummond gently admonished them as he bit into a biscuit, scattering crumbs over his waistcoat. “These are trifling problems compared to the suffering some citizens have endured due to these infernal British raids.” His gaze traced to Miss McGuire.

A twinge of guilt struck Alex. Miss McGuire dropped her spoon onto her plate with a clank.

Mrs. Drummond smiled at her husband. “You are right, dearest. Forgive me.”

“So, Mr. Reed.” Mr. Drummond faced Alex. “I’ll warrant my niece has a good explanation for hiring you without my consent, but before I agree to it, tell us a bit about yourself. Where did you meet my niece, and how did you come to be in Baltimore?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Alex saw Miss McGuire stiffen like a mast. “In truth, Mr. Drummond, I was passing by your farm, saw a gentleman enter your house and heard a scream shortly after. Not wishing to pry, but worried for the safety of any ladies within, I crept up to the open door to investigate.”

“Such kindness, Mr. Reed.” Mrs. Drummond took a sip of her drink.

Amelia sliced her meat and smiled his way. “It’s so romantic.”

Feeling his throat go dry, Alex poured a glass of the amber-colored liquid from a pitcher and drew it to his lips. Sweet mint filled his mouth. A tea of some kind. Cold but pleasant tasting.

Mr. Drummond drew his brows together and cast a harried glance at Miss McGuire then back at Alex. “Who was the scoundrel, sir?”

“Nobody, uncle.” Miss McGuire found her voice, although it sounded as strangled as if she’d swallowed a piece of rope. “The whole event was of no consequence.”

Ignoring her, Alex chuckled. “Why, it was none other than your Mr. Snyder. At first glance, I feared his intentions were less than honorable, so I ordered him to leave.”

“How gallant you were, Mr. Reed.” Amelia took a bite of potatoes.

Mr. Drummond snorted. “I wish I could have seen his face.” Crumbs flew from his mouth onto the table. Alex cringed at the man’s lack of manners.

“Now, Forbes. That isn’t kind.” Mrs. Drummond laid a hand on her husband’s arm. “Mr. Snyder is a respectable councilman.” She directed her gaze toward Miss McGuire. “And quite taken with you, Rose.”

Miss McGuire toyed with the food on her plate but offered no reply nor did she lift her gaze.

“But I’m confused, how did you come to be my new man of work?” Mr. Drummond pointed his fork at Alex—once again showing a lack of good breeding.